Mercy(White Collared Part 1)(6)
A heavy knock sounded. “Damn it,” cursed Detective Lawrence, striding to the door and opening it to reveal a younger officer. They spoke in hushed whispers. She couldn’t discern the words, but the detective stiffened.
The officer left and Detective Lawrence slunk back to his seat. He glowered at Jaxon. “The hotel confirmed you checked out using their television service at eight and left the key at the counter. Since the medical examiner has estimated time of death between four and six this morning, your alibi clears you of a murder charge, unless we learn something different. You’re free to go at this time, but we may have additional questions for you in the future, and while travel is not restricted, we’d appreciate it if you could remain available while we follow the leads in your wife’s death.”
Jaxon exhaled. “Of course.”
“Do you have anything you’d like to add before we complete this interview? Anything that may aid us in the investigation?”
He leaned across the table. “Find the monster that did this to my wife.”
And in that moment, as her pill finally kicked in and eased her racing heart, she wondered when she’d started thinking of her client not as Mr. Deveroux but as Jaxon.
Chapter Four
FLASHES OF LIGHT blinded her as they stepped outside of the station. Shielding her eyes with her hand, she glimpsed the swarm of reporters, photographers, and videographers shining bright spotlights on them.
“Jaxon! Is it true you’re a sadist?”
“Did you kill your wife?”
Tons of questions flew at Jaxon from every direction, the buzzards circling them as if they were rotting carcasses.
The door behind her swung open and Detective Lawrence swaggered out, his arms waving at the reporters in a half-assed attempt to get them to leave. The cop was reveling in his fifteen minutes of fame, bellowing to the frenzied crowd of blood-thirsty piranhas to “give them some space.”
Anyone who defended the press as only doing their job had obviously never been subjected to the media’s unapologetic barrage of emotionally charged questions or intense scrutiny. They didn’t see you as human. You were a caged animal for them to poke with their sharp spears, and then they laughed when they brought you to tears.
“What happened in the woods?”
“Is it true your mother asked the assistant district attorney to try you as an adult?”
“Were you being abused?”
Like a deer staring down the barrel of a shotgun, she froze in her tracks. Dark spots floated in her eyes, and the cacophony morphed into a whooshing in her ears.
Her chest burned.
She couldn’t breathe.
The clawing need to escape strangled her as the ground tilted below her numb feet and her trembling legs buckled.
And then . . . heat. The comforting, woodsy scent of Christmas morning surrounded her, eased her.
Reality returned and with it the persistent shouts of the reporters.
She was in front of the police station, burrowed into the woolen side of a man who felt like . . . home. His arm banded around her waist, supporting her. Sheltering her. This man had learned her weakness and could use it against her. But who was he?
Raising her head, she discovered the identity of her chivalrous rescuer.
Jaxon.
He peered down at her, his concern for her evident in his scotch-colored eyes. “You’re safe. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
She allowed herself another ten seconds of bliss before she pulled back. “I’m fine.” After fidgeting with the hem of her skirt, she unzipped her purse and retrieved another pill. She slipped it on her tongue, the action itself providing some relief. Jaxon’s hand cupped her shoulder. He’d already witnessed her panic attack. What difference did it make if he knew she took antianxiety medication now and then?
Bravely positioned in the middle of the crowd, Mr. Trenton projected his voice over the noisy reporters. “I’ll give a brief statement, but I will not answer any questions at this time.” When he captured their attention, he continued. “This morning, Jaxon Deveroux came home and found his wife’s body. He called the police, has cooperated fully, and will continue to work with them to bring Alyssa Deveroux’s murderer to justice. Having no bearing on this matter, the private sexual relationship between Jaxon and Alyssa Deveroux should remain exactly that: private. The focus of this investigation should be on finding the murderer and not rendering moral judgments on the Deveroux’ alleged sexual practices. At this time, we ask the media to respect his wishes and allow him the opportunity to mourn his wife.”
With a jab of his chin in the direction of the parking lot, Mr. Trenton signaled to them to make their move. Jaxon entwined their fingers and squeezed, silently reiterating his promise to protect her. She swallowed her fear, and he led her through the mayhem to the curb.